on your coat
to fill up the hole
when you are cold
sewn in place
in the same spot
no matter
if I'm bottom
or top
no matter
if I'm red
or blue
no matter
if I've four holes
or two
no matter
if I’m wood
or cloth  
I'd not
have you replaced me
if I'm lost

ball. And his voice
the paddle. He kept whacking
the celluloid globe to the tune
"man on the moon" I skedaddled

as a deer crossing the road
seeing a truck marked "oversize overload"
His notes ricocheted on my forehead
as a concert hall of "the living dead" My eyes

fell out of their sockets as pennies
rolling from my ripped jean pockets. I put my
hand inside to find the lining unravelling to
"man on the moon"

jumping

track skips
the notes. A broken song
cut-off by the arm. I see
the scratches left behind of

the years turning
on the same turntable. I put it on
over and over, as my pajamas. Sang it in
my sleep. Played it as the night

grew black/as I lost count
of sheep. They all wear
down eventually. Lose their sharpness
in the darkness, and replaced

with a substance, running
through my teeth. Flip-flopping
in my esophagus like my sandals
on the beach.

with head lopped off
cracked is her plastic hair
laying in the corner
under the rocking chair

once was a princess
dressed in red satin
dancing pirouettes
in a music box
before she was flattened

Just a figurine
of a woman
with painted crimson cheeks
in a mirrored prison
walled in felt
that did not recognize herself

Trinkets thrown in
tarnished
color faded
yellowed the varnish
memories evaded

But the music plays
the same song
without the tiny dancer
as the little stick turns
in the center

that plant the baby seed
can trample over it
beneath their feet.
It hasn't arms or legs
to hold it in place.
It's only a freckle
without a face.

The hands
that sprinkle the thirsty soil
with clear, crisp cool water
can drown it in
its bathwater.

The hands
that grows the bulging flower
can pull it from the rising sun
to set it in a glass that sits
silently on the cherry wood table
and see it droop, as grandpa's skin
as days pass -
withering

on my line and cast them out
two at a time? Some swim
around them. Some stop
in their harried day to take a breath

and catch a glitter in the
corner of their eye. Wipe the glitter,
as if it a speck of dust that swept up
in a wave. But can they stop to take

a bite? Plucking my shiny notes as
apples off a tree, the juices running a marathon
in their teeth. Or cutting them up into pieces
for the pie, making them all the same size.

your hand is your
friend. The hand
that touches you softly, as a band
rocking the pain. Fingers squeezing
as a little red accordion strike
as a black scorpion if someone lifts
the rock you're hiding under.

When you're the only
you talk to yourself. You're
the only ears that listen The prose
are dressed in suits and ties blocking
out your mother's cries.

When you're the only
you're lost in your head. Your teachers
complain you're out in space. You can't
paint a smile on your face. Your eyes glazed
as a honeydew. Your feet are crullers
that don't fit in your shoes.

When you're the only
you fit out. All the boys and girls
have brothers and sisters. You have
yourself. So, you create the scene
of vampires and witches that drink your blood
and dry the dishes.